Duck Season, Rabbit Season
by mischievousmofo
Summary: A CROSOVER WHERA HOUES METS HIS MATCH IN DA CLINIC!111 HOUES MASH CROSOVAR!11 OMG WTQ ONESHOT


I DON'T OWN HOUSE OR MASH OR SWEENEY TODD OR BOONDOCK SAINTS OR EVEN ANNOYING WEDDING DANCES AND THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FOR THEM ANYWAY BECAUSE FFR GAVE ME A BUNNY AND I HAVEN'T HAD A MOMENT'S PEACE SINCE.

* * *

The elderly man sitting on the exam table hiccupped, his body rocking in response. "How good of you to grace us with your presence," he said to Dr. House in the sonorous speech of a Boston Brahmin. "We've only been waiting for forty-five minutes." 

"Hey!" scolded the middle-aged woman who'd been standing out of House's sight. She stepped forward. "I have to apologize. It's been a long day. Longer when you can't stop hiccupping." She made a peace offering of a smile.

House ignored her and moved in on the patient, taking an otoscope from the rack on the wall. "That won't be necessary," said the patient crossly.

"You know, I think we must be neighbors. I believe I pahked my cah in your yahd," said House.

"A-ha. Funny," said the patient, quite obviously not amused. "Now, why don't you put away your little toy and pull out something useful, like a prescription pad, hmm?"

House tried to look as nonchalant as possible as he stepped out of the room and closed the door. He counted a few seconds, enough time for the patient and the woman to exchange confused looks, before bursting into the room. "Boo!"

"Oh no, nobody's tried that yet," the patient said. "Why, surely your genius has cured me." He hiccupped. "Oh dear. There we go again."

"Right. And your diaphragm needs immediate attention because…"

The patient scowled. "I'm old. I don't have the time to just wait for these to move along. I'm in pain! Fix it!" he moaned.

House opened his eyes wide in mock awe. "Wow. You must be really important to be so obnoxious."

"You have no idea," the patient said with a small, dangerous grin.

The woman rubbed her temples and sat in a chair. "I think that was a rhetorical—"

"You'll want to see this," interrupted Foreman, handing House a sheet of test results.

"Don't you ever knock?" asked House.

"The door was wide open," Foreman replied.

"Yeah, I was born in a barn," House said, taking the paper. "This won't be a minute," he said to Foreman. To the patient, he said, "Viagra doesn't stimulate hair growth, you know."

The patient grew quite red. "I'm not taking anything like that. You'd know if you'd take a look at my chart—"

"Penis Power? Mister Max? It's a knock-off, right?"

"I told you, I'm not—"

"Or are you using a combination of sorts? I'd appreciate it if you'd be honest," House continued, paying most of his attention to the sheet of paper. "I always suspect the penis. Tricky little bastard."

"House?" Foreman was trying to get his attention. "Her levels are—"

House ignored him and turned to the woman. "Your husband—"

It was House's turn to be interrupted. "My FATHER," the woman said, scandalized. "Father! What kind of a doctor are you, anyway?"  
House turned to Foreman and rolled his eyes. "Forget it Jake," he said. "It's Chinatown." Foreman took the opportunity to leave.

House looked closely at the paper in his hand, barely noticing the two people glaring at him. "All you need to do is to try to hiccup three times in a row. It's impossible and works like a charm, unless you cheat, of course." He paused, thinking about something far more interesting than hiccups. "Or get someone to startle you until the hiccups stop or you have a heart attack, in which case, the hiccups will stop."

"Now hear this, you state-schooled cretin, I want some Thorazine, and I want it immediately!" The patient was beyond furious. "I refuse to be treated in such a manner by a mouth-breathing clinician whose diploma isn't fit to line a latrine!"

"How about a prescription for a glass of sugar water?" House's mind was upstairs and to the right. "Or my friend Miguel's just down the block. Maybe he can get you the hook up." Lupus. Bingo. He haphazardly dashed out of the room. The excitement of solving the case made him nimble, and the unfamiliarity of the setting made the patient's daughter unable to find him as she rushed off in the same general direction. "Hello? Hey, you come back here!" She returned to the room to see her father sitting deep in thought. He hiccupped.

She took his arm, ready to assist the short scoot off the table. He'd grown stooped and less robust over the years, but was in remarkable health for a man nearing ninety.

All of a sudden he brightened and stood up straighter. "Alice," he said, "we're going to get him."

Alice shook her head. "No, Dad. No more fighting," she said. "Remember what happened with the mailman? You're lucky you didn't go to jail!"

"Jail? Me?" he scoffed. "Nemo me impune lacessit."

"For my own sake, I'm not hearing this. I don't want to have to help put you away when you try to impugn somebody. Not even him." She exaggerated her shudder. "You never treated people like that, did you?"

"I admit I could be quite patronizing," he said, "but I don't recall ever being so foul. At least, not in earnest. Which is why I've resolved to temper his temper." He raised a hand in defense against her protests. "All in fun, Alice. One good turn deserves another."

"I can't believe you just said that in front of witnesses," she said, exasperated. "I'm taking away your Internet, too. Joanna says you forget to turn off your cakes or something and people can follow you." She ignored his protesting noises. "No, Dad. I don't want to have to have a talk with a detective about some spam trick you thought was fun and was actually illegal." She turned to face him, her voice serious. "Promise me, Dad. No more of your practical jokes."

He sighed. "Very well," he said, "truce." _As far as you know_, he thought. "I promise." And to himself, he said, _and I promise this as well: that that man will rue the day he crossed Charles Emerson Winchester the Third!_

* * *

"Grandpa, please quit playing with my wig," Joanna said to her passenger. "By the time we get there I'll be completely bald. Not that it's not a good look for some people," she added quickly. "Just not really what I'm going for." 

"You know, Joanna, I'm not sure a disguise is really necessary," Charles said to his granddaughter. "You don't even have to come inside."

Joanna rolled her eyes. "Oh, Grandpa, I have to make sure you come home in the same shape you left. If there are handcuffs involved Mom will _know_ we weren't going to the park."

"Oh, she knows, I'm sure," said Charles. "She's just trying to avoid being an accessory."

"No kidding. That stuff you pulled with the post office really scared her."

They drove along in silence for a while. Charles again began playing with the blond wig Joanna intended to use to hide her identity. "And if you're beautiful and pale, what then/ With yellow hair, like wheat?" he sang absentmindedly.

Joanna grimaced. "Oh Grandpa, it's not even spelled the same."

He chuckled. "And yet it didn't keep those boys from serenading you during lunch."

"Like they could spell," she snorted. "It was the other song, actually. What a time for the choir boys to discover Sondheim." She parked the car and reclaimed her disguise, covering her dark hair with the blond wig and donning a pair of lensless glasses.

They whisked through the front as confidently as possible, borrowing an unattended wheelchair from the hallway for the speed Charles lacked in his twilight years, as well as for the air of legitimacy it lent to the operation. In the elevator Charles recognized the young black whitecoat who'd interrupted his clinic visit, but the man took no notice of him and got off on a different floor. Charles interpreted this as a good sign.

The office door was unlocked, which Charles interpreted as a bad sign. "We need to be quick," he said, standing. "He'll probably be back any moment." While he unpacked his materials, Joanna wandered around the room. "Hey look, Grandpa, he's got a piano." Charles turned. "Well, a keyboard, I mean."

The boor, appreciate music? "Preposterous. Probably just uses it to--" He was interrupted by a rollicking, squawking melody. "Well, for that, I suppose. Isn't that that dreadful noise they played at your cousin's wedding?"

"You mean the one Geoff told them not to play and then almost punched the DJ for playing?" She danced along. "I don't wanna be a chicken/ I don't wanna be a duck/ So I shake my tail."

Charles closed his eyes as if in pain. "In any case, please do turn it off." He returned to his project at the door. Joanna silenced the keyboard and came over to investigate.

"You're putting a bucket of water over his door?" she observed. "Wow, Grandpa, that's just despicable. It's even better than that thing you wanted to do with the sex toy sheep."

"Oh, don't worry," he said, smiling. "Those sheep will be put to good use come Christmastime. I do love to show your mother how much I appreciate her forcing me to leave Boston. Besides, I know she'll be properly mortified. I'm not sure the weasel has the capacity for embarrassment. Better to leave it to the tried and true, in his case. And when dealing with the tried and true," he said, "one should always add a personal twist." He pulled a plastic bag full of glitter from the bag he'd carried into PPTH.

Joanna had an idea. "Lend me some of your rope, Charlie Bronson. This won't take a second," she said, her eyes on the keyboard.

* * *

House was just about to open the door to his office when Wilson walked up, looking anxious. "We need to talk," he said. 

"You're going to give me that fifty dollars? I can offer you a very nice payment plan with a six-percent interest rate." _I thought I'd locked this._

_"_No, House, it's about the--" House stepped into his office beneath a cascade of sparkles.

"Wow," said Wilson, trying hard not to crack up. "Glitter. You know, you can't get rid of that shit."

"Maybe not," said House, trying to look dignified. "But I know how to feel better about it."

"Oh, no. Remember when you went to jail? I'm not getting involved in another one of your pissing contests," Wilson protested. "Besides, I don't think you can beat glitter."

"Watch and learn," House responded. Suddenly, from the back of his office, he heard the tawdry strains of "The Chicken Dance". He walked as fast as possible to his keyboard and pressed a few buttons. "It won't turn off." He looked up at Wilson dolefully. "Somebody hacked my keyboard."

"My mistake. You _can_ beat glitter," said Wilson as House unplugged the keyboard and slumped in his chair.

House looked at him. "Of course, you know," he said, "this means war."


End file.
